The coldest July

I am sitting here, Adaigo in G Minor is playing, and I can, as always, never find truly how to express my feelings through writing. Everything is wrong; this is not what I truly mean to put on paper. The thoughts in my head are far more beautiful than this, this painfully bleak and withered embarrassment of my mind. I stare at my hands wondering why they are broken tools, whereas my expressions thus become useless, meaningless and foreign. How long can I sit here, it is nearly the witches hour, this blank page haunts me.

Though fitting, now as ever, strangely detached and alone, ever wondering why I made the decisions I have, why I am here. Ave Maria. How many sentences must I erase. How many times must I think about home, like a shirt too small, I can’t go back. On the same mass, I don’t understand the words they say, one island for another, where am I, who can say, I don’t know anymore. The reason I am here now has another; there is none anymore.

My head is too heavy to hold, I must now wrestle with my heart to find short peace in sleep.